This is my (the Husband’s) cat, Gule (Norwegian for “yellow”), dutifully and intrepidly, without concern for his own safety, guarding our property against intruders. Is he a hero? That’s not for me to say. Is he the most handsomest cat in the tri-state area? Well, we do get emails from neighbors saying their female felines are quite smitten by him. He has been observed chasing large dogs and wolverines off the property.

Gule the very handsome and valiant cat of the husband.

This is my wife’s cat, Fuffu, a cowardly, mean-spirited fatass, lying on the floor waiting to be fed. I tried to get him to stand up and pose for the photograph, but he’s too lazy, and besides, his legs would probably break under his enormous weight. He has been known to run to his mommy crying because the mice taunt him. He’s also afraid of squirrels. All he does is eat and brown-nose.

Upon being admitted to University in Norway, you must first, regardless of your chosen field of study, complete – and pass – a basic Philosophy 1-0-1 type course known as Examen Philosphicum (them academics likes their Latins). This in order to prepare the student for the basic principles of higher learning, scientific method, critical thinking and so on and so forth.

Those of you who know me may also know that I had my own run-in with Academia and that I lost, shamefully, leaving University after several changes to my major, degree-less and with precious little to my credit other than a student loan, the barest minimum of knowledge and understanding, hardly enough even to get me in trouble, but still sufficient to fool those of even lesser learning and/or wit to believe that I was more learned and/or witty than they were. In other words I knew very little about a lot and used it to be snooty and snarky to cover up my own insecurity whenever the opportunity presented itself. (I have since evolved to become a much nicer person.)

But I do remember the lecture on René Descartes and Cogito. That in order to find truth, you must first deconstruct everything until you arrive at that which cannot be doubted and build from there. And the most basic truth is “I Think, Therefore I Am”. Cogito Ergo Sum. Surely nothing can be more basic and true than the assertion that your thinking is proof positive that you exist.

At first this seemed perfectly reasonable and self-evident to me. But what if “I” myself was somebody’s creation programmed to believe (erroneously so) that I was thinking and therefore I was? This was before the breakthrough of personal computers and the Internets, and I have already admitted that I didn’t stick it out long enough to acquire a greater understanding of the subject. If I had, I might have gotten answers. I was also afraid to appear stupid, so I never asked my professors or discussed the matter with my fellow students. I just took the damn course and got on with what I thought was going to be the rest of my life.

Current day. I download a short-story (novella, novelette?) from Amazon on my Kindle (search terms, search terms) by David Brin called “Stones Of Significance” and rediscover my fascination when I see that I’m not the only one who has pondered (however slightly) this existential question. Of course I’m not. I relatively firmly believe that every thought worth thinking has already been thought by someone else, someone smarter, and no matter what I think, I’m not adding anything of value to the pool of human knowledge. But I digress.

Disclaimer: I’m only through 19% of the story, but so far I gather it’s about digital simulations of people – even fictional people! – fighting for civil rights in a post-singularity Heaven where everybody is their own god. How totally awesome is that? I have said on occasion that I hope computer science advances fast enough and I live long enough to upload the contents of my mind to the Heavenly Server and live out eternity in virtual reality, digital bliss if you will, where your every whim and wish is possible at the speed of thought. I don’t know how realistic this is, but I quit smoking four years ago and try to live as healthy (or as little unhealthy) as I can. But my determination wavers, after all I am only human. Or am I? Maybe I am just someone’s really good simulation of “Me”, in which case it doesn’t really matter.

So here we are, waiting to die. Or to be saved by The Singularity. Or for someone to hit “Delete”. Just wanted to put it out there.

My childhood sucked. My father was an asshole. Thankfully he died early. My mother blamed her kids for her own misery. I have poor genes; chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, widespread mild to severe arthritis, thyroid disease (hypothyroidism according to my quack, I mean licensed physician ), a tendency toward pudginess (my mother said I had “big bones”), I don’t easily get along with people and I’m not handsome at all. It’s a miracle that I found a woman and got married, but that’s not what this story is about. Still, a miracle nonetheless.

With all this, in addition to getting older, going against me, I found it increasingly hard to hold on to my entire music collection, and yesterday I got rid of everything, digital and analog, by Ted Nugent. The guy only had two songs anybody remembers to his name; one about venereal disease presented as a cool thing, and another about pussy in a foreign language. I try to put up a strong façade, though, and it’s hard to tell from being around me the ordeal I just went through.

For those of you who don’t understand what I’m trying to say here, don’t worry; it would be very strange indeed if you did.

I made a strong effort to write this post without saying fuck, and I just failed.

When you surf the web you come across all sorts of odd shit and there’s a lot to learn. I guess you could say the more you surf, the less you know. For instance, until just a few minutes ago I didn’t know there was such a thing as a Terrorist Interdiction Bag. Thankfully the good people at onesourcetactical.com have them for sale. They come in handy when, during the course of your daily doings, encounter a terrorist and the need to interdict him/her becomes imperative. I know what “terrorist” means and I know what “bag” means. Now I’m gonna google “interdiction” so I don’t inadvertently interdict someone when it’s not called for. Could be embarrassing.

Terrorist Interdiction Bag

Snipped from One Source Tactical:

The ugly truth as shown by recent history is that, noble as they may be, the authorities will have a very difficult time being at the right place at the right time. Think of Fort Hood, Mumbai, and countless other events that have given us a profile of the “Soft Target Attack” preferred by the terrorist and active shooter. So who will be at the right place and at the right time?

Maybe it will be you. But will you have the tools needed to prevail?

The TIB is the answer for the man that needs to carry a full high intensity-short duration fighting kit 24/7/365, but in a very compact and ultra-discreet manner. The bag can be dedicated as a pistol only bag, set up for the TSD Glock and the popular “Happy Sticks”, or it can accommodate three Assault Rifle Magazines (AK-47 in any caliber, or M4).

The side zip pockets can carry additional magazine, or weapon accessories and trauma kits. The bag is constructed in a manner to contain and conceal the contents whether the zipper is open or closed. A carry handle as well as a removable carry strap completes the quick and dirty Terrorist Interdiction Bag.

This kit is perfect for daily carry by the undercover operative, private citizen working in a danger-high area, or as a discreet “Desk Bag” for executives that may be facing the threat of an active shooter or terrorist threat. We suggest you do not over-fill it with non-essentials. Quick and dirty. Fill it with weapons, magazines, weapon accessories, and medical stuff. That is all.

Recently my cat has been sleeping in a small, nylon gym bag that was laying around on the floor. So I thought I’d cozy it up a bit for him and put a nice, fuzzy and warm fleece in it. Now he looks at the bag, looks at me and I can tell he’s thinking “why the fuck did you do that?” and walks away to sleep in some other uncomfortable place. The moral of the story is if it ain’t broke, you’ll never understand cat logic